Not long ago, I found myself in a heated argument with one of my closest friends. Strangely enough, we have never traveled together. Not because we lack time or money, but because we disagree on one simple idea. What travel is supposed to be.

To him, travel means comfort. It means waking up in a warm bed with no alarm. It means breakfast arriving at the bedside. It means smooth transportation arranged in advance, no stress, no chaos, no inconvenience. For him, a trip is a reward. It is rest wrapped in scenery.

For me, travel is something else entirely. It is unpredictability. It is walking into an abandoned temple at eleven at night just because it exists. It is saying yes to a hike without knowing how long it will take or how tired we will be on the way back. It is squeezing every second out of a place instead of squeezing yourself into comfort. I do not want a vacation. I want a story.

Last week, I got one.

At three in the morning, I had no intention of going anywhere. If someone had asked me about a seven hundred and eighty three kilometer trip at that hour, I would have chosen my gaming console over adventure without hesitation. But by six thirty, I was standing at a bus station with friends, no bookings, no reservations, no plan. Just a destination in mind and reckless optimism in our pockets.

The bus could not even take us all the way. We reached a village around one in the afternoon, hired a jeep on the spot, and climbed our way toward a hill station that felt like it existed outside of time. None of it was organized. None of it was guaranteed. Every step felt like flipping a coin and walking forward before it landed.

The return was even better. Or worse. Depending on how much you value oxygen and personal space.

Because of extreme fog, there were no direct buses to our city. No seats were available anywhere. So we did what any sensible group of sleep deprived adventurers would do. We climbed into the luggage compartment of a bus and traveled for ten hours like misplaced cargo. Curled between bags and boxes, laughing at the absurdity of it all, we made our way home.

It was uncomfortable. It was chaotic. It was unforgettable.

Now tell me, if I had described this plan to my comfort loving friend beforehand, do you think he would have packed a bag or locked his door?